Frank Sinatra - Fly Me To The Moon

Marcello Zampetti

http://www.virginiamiller.com/artists/MarceloZampetti/MarceloZampetti.html

Rain on Tin - Rodney Jones

If I ever get over the bodies of women, I am going to think of the rain,
of waiting under the eaves of an old house
at that moment
when it takes a form like fog.
It makes the mountain vanish.
Then the smell of rain, which is the smell of the earth a plow turns up,
only condensed and refined.
Almost fifty years since thunder rolled
and the nerves woke like secret agents under the skin.
Brazil is where I wanted to live.
The border is not far from here.
Lonely and grateful would be my way to end,
and something for the pain please,
a little purity to sand the rough edges,
a slow downpour from the Dark Ages,
a drizzle from the Pleistocene.
As I dream of the rain’s long body,
I will eliminate from mind all the qualities that rain deletes
and then I will be primed to study rain’s power,
the first drops lightly hallowing,
but now and again a great gallop of the horse of rain
or an explosion of orange-green light.
A simple radiance, it requires no discipline.
Before I knew women, I knew the lonely pleasures of rain.
The mist and then the clearing.
I will listen where the lightning thrills the rooster up a willow,
and my whole life flowing
until I have no choice, only the rain,
and I step into it.

Source: Salvation Blues: One Hundred Poems 1985-2005 (Mariner Books, 2007)

Earl Scruggs, January 6, 1924 – March 28, 2012

Remembering Earl Scruggs

César Vallejo: Under the Poplars— for Jose Eulogio Garrido

Like priestly imprisoned poets,
the poplars of blood have fallen asleep.
On the hills, the flocks of Bethlehem
chew arias of grass at sunset.

The ancient shepherd, who shivers
at the last martyrdoms of light,
in his Easter eyes has caught
a purebred flock of stars.

Formed in orphanhood, he goes down
with rumors of burial to the praying field,
and the sheep bells are seasoned with shadow.

It survives, the blue warped
In iron, and on it, pupils shrouded,
A dog etches its pastoral howl.

— from The Black Heralds (2003); Translated By Rebecca Seiferle

Calabria Foti

http://www.calabriafoti.com/

Chili Williams

The Mercury 7

More information

Are They Shadows - Samuel Daniel, 1562–1619

Are they shadows that we see?

And can shadows pleasure give?

Pleasures only shadows be

Cast by bodies we conceive

And are made the things we deem

In those figures which they seem.

But these pleasures vanish fast

Which by shadows are expressed;

Pleasures are not, if they last;

In their passing is their best.

Glory is most bright and gay

In a flash, and so away.

Feed apace then, greedy eyes,

On the wonder you behold;

Take it sudden as it flies,

Though you take it not to hold.

When your eyes have done their part,

Thought must length it in the heart.

The author

An Experiment on a Bird in an Air Pump - Joseph Wright of Derby, 1768

The artist

Before The Mirror - Berthe Morisot, 1890

The artist

E8

Ernest Shackleton

We had seen God in His splendors, heard the text that Nature renders. We had reached the naked soul of man.

More about Ernest Shackleton

Sarah Burke, 1982-2012

On January 19, 2012, the snow industry lost an icon. Sarah Burke, freeskiing pioneer, six-time X Games gold medalist, beloved wife, daughter, sister, aunt and friend passed away.

Rosie